


Tente à Trois

by justalittlegreen



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Anal Sex, Angst, Dark, M/M, Multi, Threesome, dark!trapper, hunnihawk, mchunnihawk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-22 02:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17654123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justalittlegreen/pseuds/justalittlegreen
Summary: In this alternate timeline, Frank Burns is sent home in lieu of Trapper. The new surgeon, BJ Hunnicutt, is fantastic in the OR, and they're glad to have him. But his presence shakes up the delicate dynamics of the Swamp, especially the relationship that's evolved between Trapper and Hawkeye.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pr0serpina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr0serpina/gifts).



Hawkeye's hands are cold as they slip under Trapper's blanket, find the exposed bits of him between shirt and shorts. Trap startles awake, flinching and withdrawing.

"Damnit, Hawk, what is it?"

 Hawkeye says nothing, tries to crawl under the blanket. A nightmare, then. Trap sighs and makes what room he can. Hawkeye's shivering with more than a Korean January, and Trapper rubs his back with easy, lazy strokes that are usually enough.

Across the tent, Hunnicutt sits up in bed. "Everything okay?" he asks.

"We're fine," Trapper mutters.   _We were fine before you got here, and we'll be fine after you leave._

"I wasn't asking you," Hunnicutt says, light enough, but with an edge to the words.

"Well, he's not talking, and I'm telling you, we're fine."  Will that asshole ever learn to mind his own business?

From his spot under the blanket, Hawkeye kisses Trap's neck, but Trapper's too annoyed for this now. "Fine, you want him, Hunnicutt? See if you can get him back to sleep when he's like this. Good luck." He leans down to whisper in Hawk's ear, "You can come back later if your boyfriend can't get you back down. Go."

"Damn you," Hawkeye whispers back. "You really want to kick me out of bed for this, Trap? I'm not your football."

Trap sighs and rolls over. Fuck this.

"Hawk?" BJ's voice is gentle in the dark. "You want me to come over there?" 

"Naw, naw, you stay," Hawkeye says, lumbering out of the cot and making his way to BJ. He lifts his arms to Hawk as he draws near, pulling him into what little space there is, kissing his forehead as Hawk settles in. Hawkeye's breathing steadies as he nuzzles BJ's neck. Trap's always who he'll go to first, but BJ, it seems, is increasingly becoming the place he'll land.  
  
*

It took exactly one week, twenty-four hours of shelling, and almost eighty hours of surgery for Hawkeye to find himself in bed with one very shellshocked, very homesick BJ Hunnicutt.   
  
The fact that he and Trapper had established themselves as, well,  _something_ , words be damned, didn’t really factor into it. After all, he and Trap still chased nurses and enjoyed the occasional errant fling – what George did with Trapper before heading back to the front, Hawkeye will never know and will forever enjoy imagining – so it didn’t seem out of place to welcome the new bunkie turned out to share their predilections.  
  
But Hunnicutt was different. He was married, but not like Trap was married – he was deeply in love, and devoted to his wife with a kind of openness that took Hawk’s breath away. The first time he watched BJ open a letter from his Peggy, Hawkeye stared at him from across the tent, thinking only how badly he wanted someone to look at his letters like that one day.

 

The fact that he turned out to be as stellar boyfriend material as husband material wasn’t exactly surprising. The fact that he seemed rather unperturbed about it  _was_  mystifying, however. Hawk worried, but wasn’t about to look a gift lover in the mouth.  
  
He thought Trap would want to get in on it, but the two of them circled each other like wary cats. In surgery, they were perfect professionals, even joking with the rest of the crew over their scalpels. In the Swamp, the tension only eased when they were too drunk to care.   
  
Hawk understands why someone as naturally protective and loving as BJ would object to what he sees between Hawkeye and Trapper. He can’t find the words to explain how he knows Trap loves him, and how his cruelty isn’t personal, and sometimes, it’s really really hot. But sometimes, it hurts. And lucky for him, he’s found a wonderful, warm place to have his wounds licked.  
  
*

Hawkeye's mouth on his cock is warm, wet and hungry, and the guilt curdles in BJ's stomach. He's supposed to be taking care of Hawk, not the other way around, but he can't help the long, shuddery "ohhh," that Hawk wrings from him.

Across the tent, Trapper starts snoring loudly, in case anyone's wondering whether or not he's listening, because he's definitely not.

The thought of McIntyre listening --the thought of him getting hard and frustrated, the thought of him missing what he could've had tonight-- is almost enough send BJ over the edge right there. Instead, he focuses on Hawk's head, bobbing slightly, and tries to fill his ears. "That's so good, Hawk, fuck, you feel so good on my cock. You're fucking perfect, you know that? Fuck, fuck, Hawk, don't stop, don't stop -"

Trapper strokes himself under the blanket, hating everything about this.

"--do you want it, Hawk? I'm going to fill your mouth, gonna make you swallow all of me, you want that, don't you? FUCK-- " BJ arches into it, and Hawk doubles down, grabbing his hips and making sure he gets every drop. BJ can never get enough of that, has never had someone do that for him before, and it sends him to the fucking stars every time.

The fact that Trapper can hear them is just icing and a cherry.

*  
  
Trapper closes his eyes as Hawkeye sinks down onto his cock. The only way to do this is sitting up in the dentist's chair, where at least there's a solid back to lean against. Hawk's panting with the effort and making low, rough noises that go straight through Trapper. Across the tent, Hunnicutt's sleeping. Trap half hopes he wakes up. Let him see Hawkeye squirming, moaning, going to pieces in Trapper's lap. Just for that, he refrains from his usual practice of clamping a hand around Hawkeye's mouth.  
  
Hawkeye rocks slightly, back and forth, working himself into a rhythm, hands braced on the arms of the chair. Trapper holds his hips, not too tightly for once, and the blanket across his lap feels so good. He could come from this, just like this, he's positive. Maybe Trap will let him come tonight. He wishes he could see Trap's face. He'd give anything to kiss him like this. But it'd be next to impossible, physically, and he knows Trapper prefers it like this anyway.

Across the room, BJ Hunnicutt grits his teeth to the sound of the creaking chair and Hawkeye's stifled moans.

He hates -- _hates-_ \- how much it turns him on to listen to them. How McIntyre relishes rubbing it in his face, and how Hawkeye's too stoned on cock to care at this point. There's something about the way McIntyre treats him that repulses BJ, but feeds something deep and needy in Hawk. Whatever it is, BJ suspects he'll never get near it.

 

He can hear Hawkeye breathing in hard, short bursts, can picture the sweat running down the middle of his back. He hears McIntyre murmuring quietly, "Shut the fuck  _up,_  Hawkeye. Wouldn't want to wake your  _boyfriend_."

 

That does it. BJ rolls out of bed and starts walking slowly across the tent, barefoot and in his boxers. "Too late,  _John_ ," he growls as he passes the stovepipe. Hawkeye closes his eyes and leans back against McIntyre, who hooks his chin over Hawkeye's shoulder and smiles coldly at BJ. "Whatsamatter, Hunnicutt? Got tired of jacking off to us on your side of the tent?"

For that, Hawkeye elbows him in the ribs, and BJ could kiss him for it. McIntyre takes it better than he might, but reaches around Hawk to casually pull the blanket off his lap. BJ swallows at the sight. Hawk is hard, dripping against his stomach, and --BJ knows-- not allowed to touch. And probably desperate to. If it were him on BJ's lap, he'd have come already. There’d be kissing, and hands everywhere, and more tenderness in a moment than these two find in an entire night. If McIntyre’s treatment of Hawkeye is enough to piss him off, he's at least equally insulted by Trapper's lack of appreciation for the gorgeous, responsive livewire on his cock.

Enough is enough. Without really planning it, BJ's figured out his revenge. He leans down, bracing his hands on top of Hawkeye's on the arms of the chair and kisses him long and deep. Hawk moans into his mouth. McIntyre hisses, "Fuck you, Hunnicutt. Get the fuck out of here and go be a pervert somewhere else."

BJ breaks the kiss and glares at McIntyre without saying anything, then slowly gets to his knees. He feels Hawk grabbing his hair as if he knows what BJ's about to do. "I'm serious, you asshole," McIntyre says through gritted teeth. "You're not fucking  _invited._ "

"You gonna do something about it?" BJ mutters before he takes Hawk into his mouth. Hawk gasps and pulls at his hair, and BJ knows exactly what he must be doing to McIntyre’s cock. All three of them groan, and for a moment, BJ and McIntyre seem to be working together to drive Hawk forward. BJ gives it his all, a slick, unbridled blowjob, bobbing his head and taking Hawk almost to the hilt. He can feel McIntyre’s hands reaching for his shoulders, trying to push him off, and he responds by catching a wrist in his hand and squeezing it tight enough to cut off the circulation.

"Fuuuck," Hawk whimpers as BJ's tongue circles the head of his cock.  He's so close and so full, and he doesn't think Trap will ever forgive him for this, but at this moment he  _just. can't. care._  "Fuck, Beej—Trap – please,  _please_."

"No,” Trap whispers. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

BJ pulls himself off in time to say, "Come for me, Hawk, that's it. Let me swallow you."

" _Faggot_ ," McIntyre spits at him. BJ looks up, replacing his mouth with his hand, working Hawkeye over as he shakes with the effort of holding back.

"Takes one to know one, John."

And Hawkeye comes apart, streaking BJ's chest and neck and twisting so violently on Trapper's lap that the two men instinctively hold him down. Their faces are close, Hawk's writhing body between them, and it's so  _fucking_  hot that Trapper finds his own release, eyes screwed shut, teeth gritted and silent as he empties himself into Hawkeye. BJ snarls at him in disgust. He kisses Hawkeye one last time and turns his back on the two of them, throwing himself down on his cot and taking himself in hand. He may not like anything about this, but his body's less discriminating.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It's not that he couldn't imagine the unmitigated joy of waking up next to Hawkeye in the same bed -

a bed that fits them both -

a bed in a room with a door that closes -

a bed in a room far away from any eyes that might give a damn -

 - it's that he hadn't realized how much it would matter that they could make _noise._ That they wouldn't have to muffle themselves, that the raucous R&R parties on either side of their small room would be enough cover to finally make themselves heard to one another.

 

Hawkeye slides off the bed to his knees, pulling Trapper closer to the edge of the bed, opens his mouth, wet and wanting, lets him see every inch as he takes it. Trap can't help it; he twists his hand in Hawk's hair, pulls him up just enough so he can thrust without choking him, the other fingers already nearly bloody with stopping himself from moaning.

 

Hawk gently reaches up, tugs his hand out of his mouth, and winks. Flits his eyes from wall to wall, tilts his head ever so slightly. Trap gets the message.

 

 _Fuck_ is the only thing he can think of to say. "Fuck, Hawk," hoping Hawkeye can find everything he's folded into that one open gasp of a name. "I need this. I need _you_ ," he says tightly, daring to look down for a minute. Whether the brightness of Hawkeye's eyes has to do with his full mouth or John's words is up for a debate he'd rather not have, but he holds the gaze for a long moment before breaking into his softest smile.

 

*

 

"Trap, get me a towel, wouldja?"

"Why do I have to be the one to get up?"

 

"Because my legs won't work for at least another fourteen years after what you did to me." Hawkeye reaches around to give Trapper a hearty smack on the rear to get him going. John groans as he eases out of Hawkeye, watching with a knowing smirk as Hawk closes his eyes and relishes the sensations, heady little aftershocks making him twitch in spite of his sated-rag-doll body.

 

He grabs one of the towels on the wall shelf. They'll have to share the remaining one for their showers, but oh well. He comes back to bed and Hawk's turned on his side, hand reaching back, two fingers probing where Trapper just left.

 

"Insatiable hussy," John says fondly, a bloom of warmth in his belly. "Couldn't wait for more, could you?"

 

"Not quite," Hawk murmurs. He sounds distant, a little lost. "Put that towel down?"

 

"Doncha want to mop up?"

 

"Just _do_ it, Trap."

 

He does, and Hawk withdraws his fingers and rolls onto his back on the spread towel. Trapper takes a mental picture of him like that, sprawled and soft, saves it for a rougher time.

 

"C'mere," Hawk says, lifting his arms.

 

John climbs on top of him carefully, sliding his thigh between Hawkeye's, wrapping his arms under Hawk's shoulders as Hawk pulls him close. Trapper feels him--is he really ? already-- stiffening against his thigh.

 

"You like this, don't you," he whispers, just for something to say, for an excuse to share the moment.

 

"Trap," Hawkeye says hoarsely. "You filled me up _so_ good. I couldn't not-- " he moans into John's shoulder, biting it gently, as if whatever he's feeling is too good to be uttered aloud. He reaches for John's hand, guides it down to the wet spot on the towel as if it's an explanation.

 

John's a _little_ confused, but thinks he has a guess. "Feels as good coming out as it did going in?"

 

Hawkeye shudders, and John knows that if they were face to face instead of cheek to cheek, he'd see his eyes rolling back in his head.

 

"Yeah," Hawkeye manages. "Feels _filthy_ good."

 

Ah. Trapper knows what to do with filthy good.

 

"Imagine if we were in a rush sometime," he begins, quietly spinning the yarn--Hawk's not the only storyteller in the Swamp--"in Supply--" just the name is enough for Hawk to thrust his hips ever so slightly--"and we could hear the choppers coming. Know we only had a few minutes. Imagine if there was no time to clean up. That you'd be standing across from me for the next ten hours with me spilling down your scrubs."

 

It's by far and away one of the dirtiest conversations he's ever had, and he's not a prude.  He grew up on his Da's pub stories, none of them appropriate for his son of any age to hear, and doesn't blush easy, but this--maybe it's the way Hawk's gasping now, thinking of it, probably imagining the innocent wink John would give him from across the table, would lose his everloving _mind_ until someone put a scalpel in his hand.

 

It's one thing John loves about him--he always snaps out of it when it counts. Never distracted in OR, can switch gears from lust-drunk and glazed to focused and sharp in a heartbeat. Trap envies that – it’s so much _work_ for him to drag himself out of bed, both literally and emotionally.

 

In the true-life version of the story he’s telling, Hawkeye wouldn’t stand for that kind of physical discomfort, wouldn’t risk the discovery. But here, where their wants are allowed to roam wild, John lets them both believe Hawkeye’d cling to a piece of him no matter what.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A massive gratitude to Swamp Rat Clara who saved this chapter from its firey delet

There are nights when BJ almost enjoys listening to them. Nights when Hawkeye's moans float across the tent on clouds of pleasure, when McIntyre seems to loosen his grip, relax a little. Those are the nights BJ sleeps best, when he's eased by the sounds of low laughter and whispers.

 

This is not one of those nights.

 

He can't make out too well what's going on, but he hears Hawkeye begging - can't make out the words, but he knows the tones by now, knows when he's desperate and needy and wrapped up in pleasure, and when he's scared-desperate, like he's in over his head and McIntyre's crueler side decides to yank his chain. 

 

Hawkeye never cries with him, not unless it's mixed with laughter.

 

He's heard him cry at least twice with McIntyre, and both times, he had to physically stop himself from barging over there. If he ever heard McIntyre hit him - BJ doesn't like to think of how little an excuse he needs to throw the man at a hot stovepipe.

 

BJ is alert, on edge, waiting for some kind of change any change in the soft, begging sobs coming from across the tent. And then - 

 

"Trap, please –  “

 

"Just for that, you're not getting anything. Get on your fuckin' knees."

 

He's heard this before. Knows that somewhere, deep down, Hawkeye claims he needs this, takes it willingly. Of all the times he's heard McIntyire being rough with him, he's never once heard Hawk say no.

 

Until now.

 

McIntyre grunts once, twice. The wet slap against skin. Hawkeye's soft, "No, John."

 

He can't see exactly what's happened, but he knows the word no when he hears it. 

BJ can't sleep, can't strike the sound of McIntyre degrading Hawk like that. He knows Hawkeye likes games --hell, he'll play a few roles himself to make the man whimper-- but this is beyond the pale.  He's stopped shaking, but the anger hasn't subsided. He hasn't ever wanted to hit someone this badly.

 

 Across the tent, Trapper snores lightly. BJ hears stirring, looks up to see Hawkeye easing himself out of bed. He grabs his shower kit and bathrobe and steals out the door, closing it as quietly as he can.

 

 BJ forces himself to count to ten before he gets up and follows.

 There's steam coming from the shower tent by the time he gets there. He doesn't want to startle Hawk, or go where he's not wanted, but he can't not make sure he's okay.

 

He knocks softly on the door, then harder when Hawk doesn't answer. The water stops running.

 

 "Hello?" he hears Hawkeye say.

 

 "Can I come in?"

 

 There's a long pause.  "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

 

 That's not great, but BJ will take it.  He slips into the tent, busies himself getting his soap out and hanging his towel. For some reason, it's really important that he take an actual shower. He steps into the stall and turns the water on. He doesn't want to be dressed while Hawk is naked. Doesn't want to be watching him while he scrubs. He wants to be _with_ him. 

 

They lather in silence. Hawkeye washes his face over and over again. 

 

The hot water runs out. BJ steps out without looking at Hawkeye and dries himself off briskly before slipping back into his shorts and robe. He can hear Hawkeye doing the same, the clatter of his soap case and razor.

 

"Hawk?" It's the first thing either of them has said in at least fifteen minutes.

 

"Yeah, Beej?"

 

"It's a little cold in the Swamp tonight. I was thinking of heading for Supply."

 

Hawkeye turns to him, face tight and withdrawn. "I think I'm just going to head back," he says quietly. "Have a nice night." He turns around again.

 

"Hawk, wait." Hawkeye freezes but doesn't turn around, his palm on the door.

 

"Hawk, I'm cold and I'm not-- I don't want anything else. Just a space heater." It's clumsy as hell, but there are so few ways to dance around the whole we-don't-acknowledge-what-we-see-or-hear ethos of the Swamp. There's no way to say _you're hurting and I'll do anything to make it stop._

 

Hawkeye's still standing like someone's got a gun to his head, shoulders shaking the tiniest bit. BJ can't stand it. He walks up behind Hawkeye and slips his arms around him. "Please, just come away with me," he whispers, breaking all the rules. "Don't go back there tonight."

 

Hawkeye freezes, then turns slowly, nods. They make their way across camp in silence, not touching. Supply is empty, thankfully. BJ gets down on the cot on the floor, still in his bathrobe, finds two blankets. Rolls on his side and holds out his arm. Hawkeye takes a minute to get down, still in his robe. It's odd with this many layers between them. BJ wants to wrap Hawkeye in a thousand more and stand guard at the edge.

 

He's careful about where his arms go, where his hips nestle. They lie together in silence, not sleepy. BJ reaches for Hawkeye's hand, laces their fingers together. Hawk doesn't resist, and BJ gives his hand a squeeze. "Thank you for coming with me," he whispers.

 

"Thanks for the invitation," Hawk replies.

 

"Do you--do you want to talk about it?" it's a shot in the dark. They've never talked about anything, never. It's the only way--keep everything in the dark and the shadowed, keep it away from the light. What happens in the swamp will never stand up to any kind of scrutiny and they all know it.

 

Hawkeye shakes his head. "I don't know what to say," he says, voice cracking on the last word. He takes a long, shuddering breath. "I don't know what to say," he says again, this time more in control, but it's only a few seconds before he starts to cry totally silently, with nothing but a few drops on BJ's hand and the shaking of his shoulders to give him away.

 

 _He must have learned to do that from McIntyre_ , BJ thinks. There's no way Hawkeye— _his_ Hawkeye-- would find that kind of silence any kind of natural. The realization sends fury blazing through his chest all over again. He pulls Hawkeye tighter, rocking him in tiny motions, holding him—them--together.

 

BJ holds them through the awful silence until Hawk's breathing slows. He breaks his hold on Hawkeye's hand  so he can stroke his hair, his terrycloth-covered shoulder. Slowly, slowly, Hawkeye begins to relax, drifting into a doze. BJ knows he's not sleeping tonight. He occupies himself with thoughts of smothering McIntyre in his sleep, punching him in the face, holding a scalpel to his jugular. There are so many ways to kill a man, and so few ways to get justice. He doesn't really want McIntyre dead. He wants him defanged. Powerless. Weak.

 

Hawkeye stirs, rolling over, pressing his face into BJ's chest and whimpering. BJ gathers him into his arms as best he can, shushing and holding him, and whispering "I've got you, I've got you, it's okay," until Hawkeye's mouth cracks open, and with it, the smallest, most held-back sob.

 

"It's okay, Hawk," BJ says helplessly. "You don't have to be quiet." It's not true, of course--they always have to be quiet--but he's desperate for something better than this, some way to let Hawk know he won't be punished for his pain--for daring to feel it, for having the audacity to be human in front of him.

 

Hawkeye's sobs get longer, looser, until he's clinging to the lapels of BJ's robe, face buried in the blue fabric and BJ can tell he's finally starting to let go. He relaxes his hold, just enough to let Hawkeye know he's still there as Hawkeye unleashes an unspeakable pain. BJ can't help himself; he presses kisses into Hawkeye's hair, strokes his back, even uses his feet to try and give Hawk more contact. He'd wrap them into a cocoon if he could, and keep the rest of the world away until Hawkeye was ready to emerge.

 

Finally, Hawk finds an easier place, slows again, his breath warm on BJ's chest. "That's it," BJ encourages, rubbing circles over his back. "That's good." Hawkeye whimpers on the word good so he tries it again. "You're a good man, Hawkeye, one of the best I’ve ever known."

 

Hawk just shakes his head.

 

BJ takes a breath, a risk. "You didn't like that very much, did you," he says. Hawk shrinks back a little from him. "Hey, hey, okay, forget I said anything. We don't have to talk. Just come here. Just let me--let me hold you, ok?"

 

Hawkeye nods and lets himself be pulled close again. They lie like that for another long stretch. Then, finally, Hawkeye whispers, "I don't think I did."

 

"Yeah," BJ says, not wanting to spook him _. I didn't either,_ he manages to hold back.

"Beej?"

"Hawk?"

"Why were you watching?"

BJ sighs. "you really want to know?"

"It turns you on, doesn't it."

"Sometimes. Not tonight."

"You were staring."

 

"Hawk, I was worried."

"You don't have to worry about me."

"You didn't see what I saw. Imagine it'd been me. You'd have been out of your mind, I know it."

"You don't understand."

 

"Damn right, I don't. Because what I see is you offering him something he doesn't deserve. It's a gift, Hawk, the way you are to him. And he treats it--he treats _you_ \-- like trash." It's rolling out of him now, reckless and inadvisable on all sorts of levels, but he can't stop. Hawk's shaking his head against him and he knows he can't hear it, knows he can't convince him of anything, but damnit, he's been silent for longer than he can live with.

 

"Hawk," he says. "Do you even know how much I love you?"

 

He expects any number of answers: silence, stiffness, fear, laughter. What he does not expect is for Hawkeye to say, "I'm afraid I do. I'm fucking terrified I do."

 

He kisses Hawkeye's forehead. "I think that's everything I had to say," he says lightly. "We should probably try to get some sleep. Wanna stay here?"

 

"Beej," Hawkeye starts, and then pauses, wriggling himself up until they're face to face. He looks at BJ for a long time in the sliver of light that makes it into the shed. BJ holds his gaze, not looking away. He's not surprised, exactly, when Hawkeye leans in to kiss him, but wasn't expecting it. Not tonight, of all nights. He leans into it, letting Hawkeye lead, opening for Hawkeye's tongue, tentative but wanting.

 

Hawk is getting into it, slipping his hands under BJ's robe, loosening the knot and working his way down, and his hands, skilled and strong and deft, feel like heaven on BJ's skin, but even as he wants to beg Hawk to stroke him off, he catches Hawk by the wrist and holds him still.

"You don't have to," he says firmly. "This is not why I asked you here."

 

"Oh," says Hawkeye in a small voice. "You don't want? You want something else?"

 

"I want you to be ok more than I want anything," BJ says, voice shaking. "I want you to not feel like you owe me for loving you."

 

Hawkeye chuckles darkly. "Oh, but I do."

 

"Not funny, Hawk."

 

"No," he whispers. "It's not. But I do. Gd, Beej, you try so hard to make me believe impossible things, you know that? Do you know how impossible it would be try and give back what you give me? Do you know how much that kills me, trying?"

 

There's no answer for that--it's hardly even a question--so BJ does the one thing he can think of, which is to kiss Hawkeye again. He releases Hawk's wrist, doesn't protest when Hawkeye pulls him on top of him, kisses him slow and sloppy down the side of his neck. Hawk cants his hips up, and BJ can feel him, hard, can imagine the ache, feels it in his own--and that gives him the idea. Suddenly, he knows how to right this.

 

"Hawk," he says, whisper with a hint of growl, "I want you."

 

Hawkeye moans and struggles to find the words. "How?"

 

So many ways. BJ shifts, crawls backwards down Hawk's body, opening his robe as he goes, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he reveals. He reaches Hawk's shorts but doesn't pull them down, kissing him through the thin cotton. Hawk groans with the effort of keeping still.

 

"You don't have to hold back," he tells Hawkeye. "I want to know how much you want it. I want to hear you. I want to feel you. I want--I want to give you everything. Will you let me do that?"

Hawk doesn't even know what he means except that BJ's mouth is on his cock and he tugs at the edge of his shorts, frees his cock, feels BJ's mouth on him - _fuck_ it's been so long.

 

BJ licks him like something delicious, hollows his cheeks and sucks long strokes that have Hawk galloping toward the edge. It feels so fucking good--too good.

 

"You don't--you don't have to--you can stop," he pants, slipping hand down to come between his skin and BJ's. "That's enough, really, it's so good-- "

 

"No," BJ growls. "No, it's not enough, and whoever told you it was, whoever told you that you didn't deserve more--" he breaks off the sentence before he says something to scare Hawk off. "It's not enough," he repeats. "Not unless you want me to stop."

 

"No," Hawk breathes. "I don't."

 

"Then don't stop me until you want me to stop," BJ says, lowering his head again. Hawkeye bends his knees, feet flat on the floor, making more room. BJ slides his hands under him, holding him firmly as he continues. Hawk trembles, grabs at the blanket, and BJ can feel him getting into it, letting himself move. He's getting close, muscles tensing and breath getting more and more shallow, and BJ can feel him holding back out of habit.

 

"Please –please," Hawk begs, and as much as Hawkeye begging completely undoes him, BJ doesn't answer. Doesn't give him a yes or a no, just picks up the pace, sucking hard, his mouth tight and warm. He doesn't want to play. Not tonight.

 

"Beej!" Hawkeye gasps. "Beej, please, I'm gonna--I’m--" and again, BJ says nothing, but brings Hawk over the edge without warning, and he's swallowing, gulp after bitter gulp, but it's Hawk and, most importantly, it is the exact opposite of something McIntyre would do.

 

Finally, Hawk pushes his head away, curls up on his side, cups a protective hand over himself. BJ comes up behind him, kissing his neck, whispering "Fuck, Hawk, that was so good. I love when you're loud for me. I love when you come like that for me. When you're so good and just let yourself take everything I want to give you."

 

He's babbling, but the words have their intended effect. Hawk arches against him, sighs with pleasure. He's always best at letting it in when he's at his weakest.

 

They only catch a few hours' sleep before sunrise, but somehow, it's enough.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after the events of The Cave.

It wasn't five hours after they finally got back from that cave that another batch of wounded came in. Trapper and BJ took point inside, leaving Hawkeye to do triage by unspoken agreement that he, of all people, needed most to be outside, under the open sky.

 

It wasn't until their fourth hour in that they realized he'd never joined them, that his table lay empty while they worked. It wasn't such a deluge that being down a man would get anybody killed, but they sent Klinger off to find him.

 

"Captain Pierce is passed out in his cot," Klinger announced. "You want me to wake him up.?"

 

BJ looked over his mask at Trapper, who was finagling a tricky piece of shrapnel. "No," they said together.

 

They rushed out of OR as soon as they could, fighting each other for a spot at the scrub sink, elbowing and muttering barely-civil "excuse me's" as they raced to be the first back to the Swamp.

 

They needn't have rushed. Hawk was exactly as Klinger had found him, sprawled and snoring. BJ and Trapper retired to their own cots, each swearing to himself that he'd sleep with one eye open.

 

Hawk woke them screaming at midnight.

 

Trap made it over first, putting a palm to his chest and shaking him. "Hawk! You're okay, shut up. You'll wake everyone up." Hunnicutt made it over by the end of his sentence, dog tags jangling against his chest. He slid an arm under Hawk's neck and one under his knees and tried to pull him away from Trapper.

 

"Hey--" Trapper started to protest, but Hawkeye was waking, finally, and looking utterly bewildered at being caught in a game of tug-o-war between his boyfriends. He threw his hands up as if to protect his face, panting, his shirt stuck to his ribs with sweat.

 

"Easy, Hawk," BJ crooned, kissing the hand closest to him. "You're back in your nice spacious roach motel."

 

"Yeah," Trapper added. "You almost woke the hooker next door."

 

BJ chuckled in spite of himself.

 

"You okay now?" Trapper asked.

 

"I am now, but I'm afraid to go back to sleep in case you decide to tear me in half and fight over who gets to take the top to bed."

 

"Not me," said BJ. "Your top half's a lousy dance partner."

 

"Okay," Trapper said. "If you're good, we should all--" he threw a meaningful glare at BJ--"go back to sleep before the crack of not quite dawn.

 

Hawk reached out and grabbed a fistful of Trapper's tshirt. "It's not fair that you're always making me choose," he said softly, without a trace of his usual wheedling. "That's what my dream was--that I was in the cave and I couldn't get out and the two of you were so busy fighting over who would rescue me that the walls closed in before I could escape."

 

BJ let out a low whistle. He raised an eyebrow at Trapper, who rolled his eyes. _Drama queen._ "You know we'd never let that happen to you," Trapper said in the voice of someone explaining that there aren't any monsters under the bed.

 

"Good. Because there's something I want," Hawkeye said.

 

"Name it," BJ said quickly, before Trapper had a chance to say "Not at this hour, you don't."

 

"Come take a shower with me," Hawk said with an unmistakable smugness. "Both of you. I'm _dreadfully_ hot."

 

"Damn right you are," Trapper muttered.

 

"Mmhm," BJ agreed. Trapper felt like socking him. Where did he get off acting like they were all cahootsy?

 

They leave for the shower tent one at a time. John stops at the latrine first; BJ swings into Post Op and Hawk creeps around the edge of camp out of Klinger's sentry path. Halfway there, BJ realizes he's forgotten his towel.

 

When he finally makes it in, Hawk's actually taking a shower, lathering himself with obvious lasciviousness. Trapper's not even pretending; he's fully dressed, leaning on the partition and leering openly. "Bout time you showed up, Hunnicutt," he mutters.

 

"I forgot my towel," BJ explains. Trapper snorts.

 

"Like we need anything to do with towels."

 

BJ ignores him. He puts his kit down, hangs his towel. Wonders what Hawk had in mind, exactly. All he knows is he's definitely not getting naked before Trapper does.

 

Hawkeye steps out from under the spray. "Ah, gentlemen. I'm so glad you could make it. Do disrobe and make yourselves uncomfortable."

 

BJ and Trapper eye each other suspiciously. Hawkeye lets out an exasperated sigh. "Do it or I leave and the two of you can forget about sex for a week."

 

"You _couldn't_." Trapper says at the same time BJ says "You _wouldn't._ "

 

In response, Hawk steps out of the shower, knots his towel around his waist and starts to put his robe on.

 

"Okay, okay!" BJ says. "We'll do it your way."

 

Hawkeye's grin is the smuggest he's ever seen him.

 

Hawkeye's idea is a reasonably simply one: the two of them are going to wash him. In the same shower. All of them. Naked. Trapper can tell BJ doesn't think much of the idea, and truthfully, he thinks he gets where Hawk is going with this, and wonders if he doesn't entirely mind.

 

They squeeze into the stall together and Trapper immediately realizes he was right--there's hardly a spare inch, which suits Hawkeye just fine, sandwiched with BJ at his back and Trap at his front. Trap holds down the chain with one hand behind his back and BJ passes him the soap.

 

It's awkward and slippery and the first time Trap misses, slides past Hawk's skin and lands his hand on Hunnicutt,he pulls it back like he's been burned. BJ doesn't seem to notice. His cock, Trapper notes objectively, is a thing of masculine beauty. All guys look, right? You don't talk about it, but you do look.

 

A well-lubed Hawkeye moans in delight as BJ massages soap into his shoulders, and, not to be upstaged, Trap puts a hand to his cock, feels how slick and hard he is. Hawk leans back against Hunnicutt and closes his eyes.

 

"Get on your knees, Trap," he says, voice and dark, and unmistakably firm. "You want to go there, you earn it."

 

Trapper turns bright red. This is _not_ how it usually goes between them.

 

"Besides," Hawk continues, eyes still closed, "Ever since that night Mr. Nosybody over here came over to the chair, I've been dreaming about having you both at once, but switched. So if you'd be so kind as to oblige..."

 

 _Why. is. he. hard._ Why the hell does the thought of being that close to Hunnicutt's cock make him twitch and blush and simultaneously mad as hell?

 

"Oh Hawk," he hears Hunnicutt murmur. "Why didn't you say so before?"

 

Because he knew it was a nonstarter, Trapper thinks. He knew he'd only get Trap on board if he blackmailed him somehow.

 

Hawkeye reaches over Trapper’s shoulder and fumbles in his kit bag for a tube. He passes it behind him to BJ, who makes himself busy. Trap can tell by the way he groans that he's prepping him, stretching him open, two of those nimble fucking fingers--

 

"Trap," Hawk says again. "This doesn't work unless you're on your knees. I need a way to lean over."

 

Trapper swallows a mouthful of bile and embarrassment and slides his hands down Hawkeye's front as he obliges.

 

He can feel Hawkeye's stomach against the top of his head as Hawk leans over, bracing himself. Trap opens his mouth, gives a tentative lick--he's only done this a couple of times, and drunk times, to boot--but the way Hawk shudders and twitches, he thinks it might be something he could pull out a little more often. His back also conveniently shields Trapper from the downpour of the shower.

 

He hears a pair of deep groans as Hunnicutt slides in, and Trap can't help himself: he reaches behind Hawk, makes a V of his fingers against Hawk's ass, feels the hard silk of BJ's cock against his skin.

 

"Had to get in on the action, McIntyre?" BJ says with a hint of snark, but it's well-buried in the lust he can't keep out of his voice.

 

Trapper response by taking all of Hawkeye in at once, hollowing his cheeks, and nearly gets knocked over as Hawk thrusts into him involuntarily with a broken cry.

 

"Fuck, Hawk," Hunnicutt is saying, thrusting in earnest now, small pumps of his hips that drive Hawkeye deeper into Trapper's mouth (and he'd never say so but he's _so_ grateful that Hawk isn't a monster, that he can take it all with reasonable ease).  He's got his hand wrapped around his cock, never mind that he's never gotten turned on from giving pretty much anything before--that's Hawkeye's bent, and who knows, maybe Hunnicutt's--and he can feel Hawk tensing and starting to twitch in his mouth, pulls himself off and finishes him with his hand as Hawk shudders and gasps above him, knees buckling. Hunnicutt holds his hips, keeps him from falling.

 

John finally stops the water, which has long run tepid. Hunnicutt is still buried to the hilt, his own arousal unsated, but it seems like a good moment for a pause.

 

"Now," Hawkeye rasps, apparently not done orchestrating for the night, "If either of you wants to get off tonight, it's going to have to be at the mercy of the other." Both of them start to protest at once, but he holds up a hand. "That's the deal. If you want me, you get to cooperate. I'm done being a single steak in two-dog house. He eases himself of Hunnicutt with a groan, finagles his way out of the cube. "Come back when you've figured out how to work together, boys."

 

BJ glares down at Trapper as the door closes behind Hawkeye. "We don't actually have to do this," he says. "We're not his puppets."

 

"Funny, you do a decent marionette when it comes to him."

 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

 

"He jerks you around. Makes you dance for him."

 

"He does _not._ "

 

"Oh yeah?" Trapper mimics Hawkeye's accented whine. "I'm having nightmares; fuck me, BJ! That man has you on a string tighter than one of his sutures."

 

"Just because you get off on denying him things--"

 

"Look, he and I had a good thing going before you--"

 

"Before I _what_ , McIntyre?"

 

"...you spoiled him."

 

"I WHAT?"

 

"You think he'd have ever tried to pull some bullshit like this if you hadn't come along and--"

 

"Showed him what a reciprocal, caring relationship actually looked like?"

 

John leaps to his feet and goes for Hunnicutt's throat. "Don't you _fuckin’_ talk to me about what caring looks like."

 

Hunnicutt catches him by the wrists - they're both broad, strong men, but Hunnicutt has leverage, and before he knows it, Trapper's hands are by his sides and Hunnicutt's face is in his.

 

"I'm sorry, did I hit a nerve?" he hisses. "You think what you do is /caring/ McIntyre? You think giving him the privilege of sucking you off and crawling back to bed in a pile of shame is how you love a guy?"

 

"I never said anything about love," Trapper responds automatically. "Look, you don't understand us. So butt the fuck out of it."

 

"You _idiot,_ " BJ spits. "I understand plenty. I understand what it looks like when a guy is so wrapped up in his own insecurities he tries to paste them on the nearest willing guy. I understand that inconsistent reward is the best, most sadistic human motivator we've managed to invent and you've taken it to an _art form._ I understand that for GDKNOWS WHAT REASON, he loves you, and you can't manage to let him."

 

All Trapper can hear is blood. Blood and heartbeat. Hunnicutt's face blurs in front of him. Hawk does _not_ love him. That's not what this is. This is--this is comfort. Need. Urgent and necessary. This is survival. Love is--love doesn't get to live here.

 

"Fuck you," he says. It's all he can manage.

 

Hunnicutt lets go of one of his wrists and grabs Trapper's cock. "You know what?" he whispers as he starts stroking. "I think you want it. I think you see what happens on my side of the tent and you're /jealous/ becuase you don't know how to get there."

 

Trapper should stop him. Should definitely pull his hand away. Make it clear that whatever this is, he doesn't want it, and Hunnicutt definitely does not have the upper hand, has definitely not just shaken him, is definitely not feeling some kind of wounded.

 

How he's still throbbingly hard is anyone's guess.

 

Trapper McIntyre has made worse choices in his life than allowing Hunnicutt to continue jacking him off, but he'd rather saw off a hand than let him know that. He stares him down, trying to appear as though Hunnicutt's (deft, strong, clever) hand on his cock is plain inconsequential. He desperately wants to know if the man's as hard as he is, but keeps his eyes trained on Hunnicutt's.

 

Hunnicutt doesn't blink first as much as he pulls Trapper past his field of vision. Gets his other hand on the back of Trapper's neck and pulls him closer, til they're cheek to cheek. Trap struggles against the embrace, but Hunnicutt gets a hand in his hair and pulls hard.

 

Of all the random weaknesses, he had to blindly strike _that_ one.

 

"Get some soap," BJ growls in his ear. "You're going to have to clean me off before I let you get anywhere near my cock."

 

"Who said I wanted to get anywhere near your anything?" Trapper mutters back through gritted teeth. He can practically hear the smugness in Hunnicutt's reply.

 

"Who said I gave a shit? I'm not letting you ruin this for me, _John._ Get the fucking soap."

 

The only reason--the _only_ reason--he reaches his hand back and fumbles for the bar is because if Hunnicutt keeps this up, they're going to be touching eventually, and the man does have a point about cleanliness. As long as he doesn't think about where his cock has been (where both of them have been, doesn't think about how Hunnicutt, too, knows the carnal embrace of one Benjamin Franklin H. Pierce) he can at least keep things sanitary between them.

 

Hunnicutt, unlike Trapper, seems utterly uninvested in keeping stoic. As soon as John's lathered hand finds him, he growls, drops his head, bites Trapper's shoulder and shudders.

 

Trap stands a little straighter. Here, at least, he knows he's got what it takes to make Hunnicutt beg.

 

The water's cold now, so John releases his hold to fix the other shower chain so that the water keeps running, but their stall stays dry. He doesn't think of it as a chance to escape, maybe on purpose, as he finds his way back into BJ's arms, their hands meeting at the knuckles as they resume stroking each other.

 

Trapper still hasn't said anything, but he knows skill when he feels it, and it seems like BJ likes a similiar style to his own - straightforward and consistent, none of the fancy wristwork Hawk likes to put into it. He picks up the pace as he feels Hunnicutt's hand start to scramble, feels the way he tightens, starts holding his breath.

 

Trapper reaches around and squeezes the base of Hunnicutt's cock as tight as he can.

 

"Don't you fucking dare," he whispers softly. "Not yet. You'll wait."

 

Hunnicutt bristles. "I'm not _him,_ you asshole. You can't play me like you do him--"

 

John squeezes more, draws a wince. "I'll _do_ whatever I damn well please." His breath is starting to come faster, tighter, the heady rush of it flooding him top to bottom.

 

Hunnicutt grunts into his shoulder, "Let me come, you jackass."

 

"Say please and I'll think about it."

 

"Finish me or I'll stop what I'm doing."

 

"Fine by me."

 

"I will. You won't like it."

 

"I couldn't give any less of a shit."

 

Hunnicutt drops his hand and pulls away, glaring at him. "Are you kidding me?"

 

"Nope."

 

"You--you" Hunnicutt is fuming, and Trapper can't figure out why. Sexual frustration doesn't look _this_ good on anyone.

 

"You wanted to mess around on your own terms. That's not how I operate, Hunnicutt. You want me, you play by my rules."

 

"I don't want you!"

 

Trap gives him a sly, infuriating grin. "Suuuure," he says, drawing it out, releasing his hold and giving Hunnicutt a soft, loose-handed stroke.

 

"I don't want your bullshit," Hunnicutt amends. "Your rules and your one-sidedness, your cold, demanding bullshit that leaves me to pick up the pieces of him every other night."

 

"He's free to leave at any time," Trapper says mildly. But it sounds ridiculous even to him.

 

"We both know that's--uhnhf--a lie."

 

"What'sa matter, Hunnicutt? Trying to hold back from somethin'?"

 

BJ pulls him back in, closer this time, close enough that Trapper has to struggle to keep stroking him. "I'm going to come all over you. Mark you with it. Make you wear it back through camp and /sleep/ in it, you dirty fucker. See how you feel when someone does it to you. How it feels to walk around feeling owned."

 

Trap finds friction against Hunnicutt's stomach, feels his own release building. Doesn't let up with his hand. He can hold off. He always can.

 

"Do it," he whispers.

 

BJ stills for just a split second and falls apart. Trapper can feel it on his stomach, his fingers, feels Hunnicutt shaking, his hands stuttering on Trapper's back. "Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck _you.  Fuck_ you."

 

"You want my come?" Trap whispers back. "You'll take it where I give it. In your mouth. That sweet-talking hole of yours that never shuts the fuck up."

 

He expects a fight. Expects Hunnicutt to be repulsed, to refuse, to give up.

 

He does /not/ expect him to wipe his fingers through his own come on his belly. Definitely does not expect him to shove those fingers  into John's mouth before he can refuse.

 

Trapper gags, struggles. BJ holds his head a good few seconds before yanking his fingers out and getting to his knees and sucking /hard/ before Trap can catch his breath.

 

Fuck, his mouth is _so good._

Trapper tries to thrust, gets a hand down into Hunnicutt's hair, but BJ's grip on his hips is too strong. Too late, he realizes that Hunnicutt's controlling his hips, moving him as /he/ sees fit. He's doing exactly what Trap told him to do, but with the tables entirely turned.

 

This does not remotely square with his good-boyfriend image.

 

If there's one thing Trapper is going to take from this it's that beneath a ridiculously soft exterior, BJ Hunnicutt can be stone colder than he can.

 

He doesn't stand a chance after everything the night has been. Hunnicutt's mouth is warm and skilled and Trapper finally stops caring, finally hits a point where it's not Hunnicutt's mouth anymore. It's just a hole, he tells himself. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

 

And then Hunnicutt reaches one long arm up and slips his fingers into John's mouth again and he comes, harder than he has in months, bucking into him, biting his fingers and fighting the urge to roar.

 

He doesn't know he's crying until Hunnicutt pulls his hand out to wipe his cheek.

 

As soon as he realizes it, Trapper turns, fumbles with the door to the stall, stumbles into his robe, and tears out of the shower tent. He runs back to the swamp, hurtles himself into his cot and pulls the blankets round. He's not  crying anymore, just shaking and hyperventilating.

 

Hawkeye kneels at the edge of his cot and reaches over to rub his back. John stiffens against the touch.

 

"Trap, what happened?"

 

"He got what he deserved." Hawkeye looks up to see BJ framed in the door. "I told him a few things he didn't want to hear," he says stiffly. "He took it pretty well, though."

 

"Beej--"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"What should I do?"

 

BJ sighs wearily. "Try to love him, if he'll let you. And let me love you when he can't."

 

Hawkeye nods. He drags his cot over next to Trapper's, throws his own blanket over them both. Rubs a hand over his arm. Tentatively reaches to pull Trap closer to him, as close as the divide will let them.

 

Trap doesn't help. But for the first time, he doesn't fight, either.

 

"Beej?"

 

"Bring your bed over here."

 

"Why?"

 

"Because I want you both close and I'm done apologizing for it."

 

"Fair enough."

 

"Fair enough," echoes Trapper in a whisper.

 

"Fair enough," Hawkeye says.

 

~fin~


	5. Chapter 5

Mail call comes while John's in post-op; on his way back to the Swamp, he hears the titters and tears of everyone wrapped up in splinters of home. It's a calm day, an easy day, so when he gets into the tent, he almost enjoys the sight of Hawkeye knitting while Hunnicutt reads a letter. Moments like this, and it's easier to forgive the nights their pain.

 

Hawk looks up from his stitches and gives him a quick smile. John scans his bed - no mail for Hawk, today. He'll have to remember that, take him somewhere tonight, get him distracted. Hit some golf balls, at least.

 

"Hawk - listen to this," Hunnicutt says. 'Now that she's teething, it's hard to keep anything out of her mouth. It's like she wants to chew up the world before she gets her molars in. She's ruined two of my shirt collars and I'm afraid she's coming for my fingers next.'

 

"Is this your daughter or the dog?" Hawkeye says, chuckling. "Better tell Peg to hide her slippers."

 

"Frozen bananas," John says without thinking, wishing he could bite back the words as they slip out. He has no business in the cozy domestic affairs of his bent bunkie. He should stay out of it.

 

"Frozen bananas?" Hunnicutt sounds confused. John looks up from his month-old Globe to answer.

 

"Have her cut some banana into little pieces and stick it in the freezer, and pop one in 'er whenever she starts chomping. She's sore, trying to ease it with pressure. The cold will numb her gums and get her to stop gnawing on everything." He pauses for a second and adds, "S'how we saved Louise from Becky when hers were comin' in."

 

Is it just his imagination or is Hunnicutt looking at him with something approaching appreciation? "Thanks, Trapper," he says. The use of his name doesn't escape John. He really means it.

 

"Could always just get her a few rawhides," Hawk mutters. Hunnicutt throws a balled-up sock at his head.

 

"Hey, while we're on the subject, do you know how soon they start crawling?" Hunnicutt's voice is light, even, almost clinical. John answers him as he would a colleague.

 

"Depends. The big one started at nine months, but the little one had her to watch and figured it out a few months sooner. Since she's your first, it could take awhile."

 

Hunnicutt makes a note. "I'll have to tell Peg that," he says absently. "She's worried, but Erin's only seven months. Apparently the neighbor's kid is some sort of prodigy. He's already crawling and saying a few words and composing his first sonata."

 

John chuckles. "Listen, to hear Louise tell it, I'm father to both Da Vinci AND Shakespeare. Mothers brag. All of them."

 

"I'll be sure to put in that she can tell the neighbors about Erin's recent successes in pole vaulting," Hunnicutt cracks drily.

 

John glances over at Hawkeye, who's focused, to all outside eyes, entirely on the half-finished scarf in front of him. But a smile tugs at his lips, insistent and affectionate, and when he catches John looking, he sends him a wink and mouths a "thank you."

 

Hawk finds him later, out in the spot where they used to watch five o' clock charlie make his rounds. John sees the flashlight beam before he hears him coming. "I got your note," Hawk says, flopping down into the second folding chair Trap set out. "What's going on, Trap?"

 

John leans as far back as he can, and slides a gentle hand over the back of Hawkeye's head. "Look up."

 

Hawkeye does. "There's no moon tonight. You expecting to turn into a werewolf or something?"

 

"No, you idiot." John sighs, but there's not much behind it. "I'm tryna show you something nice."

 

"Okay, okay." Hawkeye tilts his head back again. "Gd, there's so many stars, Trap. Reminds me of home. How come I never think to look at the stars here?"

 

"They're covered by canvas and plywood most of the time. Okay, so see here, that one that looks like a W, low in the sky? That's Cassieopea, the queen. That's her crown."

 

Hawkeye opens his mouth to say "I know," but shuts it before he makes a sound. Trapper's voice is so soft and sweet. He imagines this is what he's like with his daughters. For a moment, he imagines Trap and him in Maine with two little girls, pointing at the stars and telling stories. It's not something he really imagines for himself, or even particularly wants with Trapper, but the image warms him nonetheless.

 

He lets Trapper point out a few more constellations, snuggling against him as best he can across the chairs. The ease from the afternoon carries over and curls around them. Hawkeye's almost afraid to say anything, worried he'll break whatever spell has gotten Trapper this far. But now Trap's hand is on top of his own, his fingers threading into the spaces between Hawkeye's, and Hawkeye's heart is going like a schoolgirl's.

 

He lifts their joined hands and kisses Trapper's knuckles, then lets them fall back to his lap. He doesn't need more, doesn't want more. For right now, he's happy to watch the stars, knowing this is more than just a cease-fire - it's a moment of actual peace.

 

When their yawns threaten to break their jaws and it's too cold to sit out by the field any longer, Hawkeye and John head back to the Swamp. BJ wakes as they come in, surprised at how quiet they are, how completely unintoxicated they seem. Usually at least one of them bumps into the stove and swears, or falls into bed with his boots on. But tonight, there's no clumsiness, no stumbling.

 

No tension, either. None that he can sense.

 

Hawk drags his cot over to McIntyre's, and for a moment, BJ feels a pang of jealousy. Mail day is always half balm, half burn; he'd more than welcome Hawkeye over to distract him.

 

The small stirrings and sounds that drift his way almost make him want to leave for the night, or suggest they find space elsewhere. But even as he's bracing for the usual barrage of sighs and grunts and, for lack of a better descriptor, _roughness_ between Hawk and McIntyre, he's thinking /tonight is different./ Tonight is already different.

 

And then he hears something he never hears from the other side of the swamp - Trapper laughing. A soft low chuckle that has more warmth in it than anything BJ's heard from him in the six months they've known each other. And then the laughing pauses, and there's - BJ can hardly believe his ears - kissing.

 

Dr. John Francis Xavier Trapper McIntyre letting himself be kissed - by Hawkeye, no less. Hawkeye, who is always being restrained, held back, denied. Hawkeye, who is constantly punished for any kind of affection. And yet - tonight, there is laughter and there are kisses, and eventually, there are quiet moans from both of them.

 

BJ understands the physics of sex in small spaces  - as well as both their voices and what the sounds mean - well enough to figure out they're both getting something tonight. Maybe they've got their hands on each other, maybe Trapper - the image stirs him more than he'd like to admit - is buried to the hilt and stroking Hawkeye at the same time.

 

The sounds turn breathier, and BJ finds himself hard and, given the soundtrack, rather enjoying guessing what's happening, for once.

 

BJ's hand is under his shorts, now, shameless and hungry with it, short, firm strokes as he squints across the dark tent and  (with the help of familiar sounds) makes out the shape of Hawk rolling out of bed to his knees. He sees the arc of McIntyre's arm, knows he's got his hand in Hawk's hair, and then the unmistakable sound of slickness, of Hawk humming his pleasure with his mouth full.

 

Only this time, there's no shushing. There's no dirty talk, no hissed insults that set BJ cringing under the blanket. There's only panting, breathing that gets heavier, a grunt that implies Hawk's doing something utterly filthy with his tongue. He hears Hawk pick up the pace, the creak of the cot like a metronome as John rocks until he lifts his hips clear off the mattress -

 

"Hawk - " the name comes out as a gasp, long and needy and BJ explodes into his hand, unexpected and sudden (and of all the people in this camp with whom he'd be least likely to enjoy a simulataneous orgasm), and suddenly, Hawkeye's breathing hard, too, moaning, "Trapper, ohGd, Trap - "

 

And McIntyre says "Yes."

 

Not "come, you filthy bastard."

 

Not "now."

 

Not "shut up."

 

Korea is a rough place. That yes is the most tender thing BJ has found here yet.


End file.
